


Pick Up These Broken Pieces

by lindsey_grissom



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-07
Updated: 2013-03-07
Packaged: 2017-12-04 14:40:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/711861
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lindsey_grissom/pseuds/lindsey_grissom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Sherlock never indulged Mycroft's vices, but John isn't Sherlock so he pulls down a plate and fills it with chocolate digestives and bourbons.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pick Up These Broken Pieces

John sees the big black umbrella before he sees the man under it, but by then he already knows who he is (he's seen that umbrella so many times it's impossible not to think of it and its owner at the same time). He juggles the carrier bags in his hand and digs out his keys, his hair dripping rain water into his eyes.

"You coming up?" He tilts his head towards the open door and waits until Mycroft drops the cigarette to the pavement before turning and going through himself. 

Mycroft stands his umbrella by the door, the lock clicking closed behind him and John lets him take one of the bags so he can slip out of his coat and hang it up next to Mycroft's on a hook that has never been Sherlock's.

He leads the way up to the apartment using his sleeve to mop up the water clinging to his eyelashes. Mycroft is quiet behind him, his steps steady and sure and neither of them is bounding up the stairs like they can't wait to get to the top.

John's apartment near the Strand is a little different to the one at Baker Street. There's an actual door between the lounge and the kitchen and it's all on one floor. It still has a helpful but nosey Landlady downstairs but there aren't any holes in the wall or heads in the fridge.

"Tea?" He offers, leaving the kitchen door open and taking the bag from Mycroft's hands with a little wave towards the couch. 

Mycroft takes a seat with a soft "please" and John's frowning down into the box of Tetleys before he's really thought about it. He unpacks the shopping while he brews the tea, moving the hot water from the kettle to the teapot and pouring a little milk into two cups. He adds a spoonful of sugar to one and then pauses before adding another. Sherlock never indulged Mycroft's vices, but John isn't Sherlock so he pulls down a plate and fills it with chocolate digestives and bourbons. 

He takes a deep breath before he heads back to the lounge, the fingers of one hand tangled around the handles of the cups, the plate balanced like a tray on the other. He doesn't know what he's bracing himself for, but his instincts tell him he needs to.

Mycroft accepts the tea with a smile and nod, both hands curling around the cup and bringing it to his mouth. He inhales the steam before taking his first sip and John realises he's still standing there, hand outstretched and watching so he slides the plate of biscuits onto the coffee table, close to Mycroft's knees and sits down carefully, folding his body into the rest of the couch. 

They drink in silence, the tick-tick of the antique clock on the wall and the rush of cars outside providing a strange soundtrack to the room. Mycroft looks at everything, grey-green eyes flicking from John's collection of mystery novels on the bookcase, to the stack of Doctor Who DVDs on the floor, to the jumper and shirt over the armchair left from John's quick-change after his shift this morning. He looks everywhere but at John and John watches him.

He doesn't reach for the biscuits, so John does it, leaning forward and lifting the plate. He chooses an uncracked digestive and holds it out, knocking the side of his little finger against Mycroft's shoulder when he doesn't notice.

The little jump and flinch doesn't go unmissed, neither does the way Mycroft leans towards him after, taking the biscuit between two shaking fingers and dips it into the last of his tea once he's nibbled it small enough. John shifts just a little, just enough that with his leg bent up on the couch and his foot beneath his thigh, his knee lightly touches Mycroft. He counts up towards ten in his head and his heart lurches when Mycroft moves his leg closer, making the touch firmer, when John is only at 3.

He sips at the cold dregs of his tea, not wanting to move to put it down but needing to do something that isn't reaching and holding. Mycroft licks the melted chocolate off of his fingers, his tongue pink and small slipping out between his lips. He pulls out a handkerchief when the last of it is gone, and wipes his hand like the last few seconds didn't happen. 

John rests his arm along the back of the couch, fingers an inch away from the stiff grey wool of Mycroft's suit. 

He doesn't ask _'what happened?'_ doesn't say _'don't go back there, please, they're killing you'_. He stretches his arm just a little bit further and presses his fingertips to Mycroft's shoulder, he says; "I put clean sheets on in the guestroom last night" and just presses.

The clock ticks through one hour after another and John pushes up from the couch twice to make them more tea, to pick up a book and order something for dinner. He settles himself closer to Mycroft each time he returns but the only touch is his knee and his fingertips to a thigh and shoulder. Mycroft watches the images behind his eyes looking at the wall and John turns the pages of his book loud enough that Mycroft will know he's there.

He shares the Chinese out onto plates and settles one on Mycroft's knees, curling Mycroft's fingers around a fork and smiling like it's nothing unusual. They eat with as much silence as they can and John's mind fills in the conversation they aren't having about the weather and the news. The book he's reading is Harry Potter because there's nothing there to hurt Mycroft if he looks at John at all. He doesn't but John won't pick a different book just in case.

The streetlights come on in burnt orange and John slides the curtains closed to block them out, lighting candles instead of turning on the lights. Mycroft's face flickers in the flames and John gathers up the plates, closing his eyes when he scrapes most of Mycroft's meal into the bin. He pours out two glasses of water, taking extra care to leave half an inch of space at the top even though he knows Mycroft's eyes won't light up to see it. John has work tomorrow and the day after, and a pile of patient records he should be making notes in but he picks up the glasses and hooks the kitchen door with his ankle as he passes through, pulling it closed behind him. He gets another nod, another smile and he settles back down where he left, sipping the water until the glass is empty and the tea lights on the bookcase have burnt themselves out. 

He bites his lip, eyes wide and wet in the dark and slips Mycroft's glass out of his hand, standing it with his own on top of the copy of _Countryside_ on the table and rocks onto his feet. He lets the pad of one finger run along Mycroft's brow before he clasps Mycroft's hand in his own and tugs.

He steps back when Mycroft stands and walks backwards, arm out and elbow bent as he pulls. 

The guestroom is dark and warm, it smells of vanilla and rose and John really did lay out new sheets before his shift last night. He drops Mycroft's hand once they're clear of the door and reaches a hand beneath the closest pillow, fingers brushing and grasping at soft cotton. The pyjamas are red and chequered and the only things John owns that fit Mycroft perfectly. He lays them out across the bed, unfolding and adjusting and not really sure why he needs to.

He turns back to Mycroft when the last crease is flattened, the last cuff unruffled. Mycroft looks at the wall and John brushes his fingers across the buttons of his jacket, sliding them open one by one. He hooks his fingers into the lapels and pulls it off of Mycroft's arms, hanging it over the bed just for now and turning back to work on Mycroft's shirt.

He runs his fingers over the collar once he has it away from Mycroft's body and laying flat and cooling in his hands. He hangs it carefully from a hanger and hooks the little metal curve over the top of a picture frame. Mycroft's belt unbuckles and slides through his belt loops with a soft _swish_ and John wraps it around and around in the palm of his hand and tucks it carefully between his childhood bear and the frame Harry made him when she was five, to stop it unravelling.

Mycroft steps out of his lace-ups at John's quiet "shoes" and John lines them up against the wall, bracing his hand against the smooth wallpaper while he hangs his head for just a moment, just so he can breathe without choking on his wet eyes. He unbuttons and unzips with careful fingers, gentle and precise and nimble with zips and flies and needles and surgical thread. Talented fingers that curl into the space between Mycroft's waistband and his hips and pull his trousers down, dropping his body down to the floor to follow. Fingers that press into the soft flesh at back of one knee and then the other and guide Mycroft out of the last of his clothes while John's cheek taps against the warm skin of Mycroft's thigh once, twice and he pulls at the pyjama bottoms until they slide from the bed and into his hands. He presses and taps and tugs the bottoms up around Mycroft's waist. He folds the trousers over the straight line of the clothes horse in the corner, and settles Mycroft's jacket over the top.

The pyjama top has padded buttons that do up all the way to the collar and John has to reach up to do it, but he buttons the last one and lets his hand rest for a moment against the embroidered pocket, feels Mycroft's heart beat beneath it.

Mycroft curls onto his side beneath the covers John lifts and holds out and John tucks him in before he leaves, pulling the door round but not closed and slipping into his own room next door.

He sleeps for maybe an hour, maybe three, but he wakes at the first sob and slides off the top of his covers to pad on bare feet into the guestroom. Mycroft has shifted, curled tighter, closer to the far wall and John slips into the space behind him, wraps one arm around his waist and one above his head, fingers running soft and sure through his hair. Mycroft turns into him on the next sob and the one after that and John pulls him close and holds him against his chest, tangles his legs with Mycroft's and kisses his eyes, his nose, his mouth, his cheeks.

In this room that isn't his and isn't Mycroft's he presses his lips against hair and skin and whispers idle promises that aren't idle at all. He listens while Mycroft talks and rubs a thumb over knuckles that have done too much. In this dark room with its vanilla sheets and rose room-spray he holds Mycroft close while he cries and lets the British Government crumble a little, for all the things it's done that he can't forgive and he forgives Mycroft for the things it makes him do that lead him here to John's arms and John's lips and his tired little flat.

He says "you're okay" and "I'm here" and pretends he doesn't feel Mycroft's hands gripping him tighter with each word. In this quiet room holding a man who once meant nothing to him and is now everything, "I've got you" sounds an awful lot like _'I love you'_ and feels exactly the same.


End file.
